


Spark

by Missy



Category: Army Of Darkness (Comics), Army of Darkness (1992), Ash and the Army of Darkness, Evil Dead (Movies), Evil Dead - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fireplaces, First Time, Mid-Canon, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Triple Drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-02-12 15:00:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2114280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four different times, four triple drabbles.  Or: how a lady knight won her man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She feels alight and exposed at the same time, changed and yet static, the prickle of soft fur at her back swaddling her body under the hairy, warm weight of his.

They breathe in concert, wedged together, a forelock of dark hair pasted to his nose, glued there by the heat of the fire. He looks boyish now, even deep in sensual concentration, and not at all the fearsome warrior who defeated Deadites before her very eyes. 

The hair remains distracting. She reaches up to brush it back and he growls, pinning her there lightly, holding her still with his rocking hips and his dark eyes.

Sheila doesn’t know what lead her to mate with him so, lying on her back like a slattern before the blacksmith’s fire, two inches from the half-open door, trying to muffle her cries against his steel-chord neck. What lead her to kiss him back in the first place? Only the feeling that she had done him sore, that she felt so terrible about hurting him, about the casual cruelty she’d shown him when she’d tried to keep it from her life. Maybe the animal loneliness was what they shared, the thing that drove her to worm her fingers through his chest hair to stroke his nipples and lift awkwardly into his thrusts, the loss of her naif status forgotten in the wild friction and the beat of his blood.

She feels the part of his lips against her cheek, the hot bang of his breath hissing against her cheek. The metal hand squeaks his tension against her stone floor.

His good hand finds her. She becomes heedless spark in the wind, blocking out the questions ghosting her mind.

He’ll notice later what he’s done. He’ll talk to her then, and she will know him.


	2. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Battle

He takes her to the smallest, quietest chamber in the highest, tallest tower after the celebration, pushing her up against the wall, hiking up her skirts, breathing against her neck. He makes a pleading sound of pure joy, dirty and laughing, his mouth and hands greedier than anticipated. 

They roll and fall together upon the counterpane, feather mattresses letting them sink like stones into luxury, uncaring of the scent of smoke and the way their muscles ached when they reach to hold and stroke. He finds the back of her dress and pulls it open with his teeth, trying to pin her to his lips and tongue. They smell of the battle, and the war still screams in their aching muscles and young flesh.

They stop feeling the pain of it soon enough. All they really feel is the open aching need of each other and nothing else. She holds the back of his head with both of her hands and squeezes her eyes tightly shut, riding his face until the red-black static of passion overtakes her field of vision.

Then she’s shoving him back and unlacing his hose, prepared and delighted by what soon confronted her. Sheila has grown to love that member; it fits upon the fulcrum of his body, the heft and length of it, a quiet representation of his masculine energy, the desire that compels her to touch him, to kiss the dark fur matting his chest and belly. 

Then she tastes him for the first time, forbidden and bitter upon her tongue, until he pushes her back in desperation, his hands shaking as he mounts her and finds her. Then there’s union and harmony, if only in the bed, and if only until the morning light pierced the veil of secrecy through which they dance.


	3. After The Woods

The bark scrapes her thigh as he pulls her back against him, pressing her down, feeling her heart beat hard against his lips as he divests her of the bright red rags her alter ego so preferred. Sheila helps him with eager hands, laughing into the soft skin of his neck, nipping and biting like a she-wolf as she eagerly tried to bare his skin.

He leaves pink bitemarks on her breasts, on her buttocks, and at one point he flips her around until herb belly scrapes the bark and slides his tongue between the lips of her labia from behind. Two fingers penetrate her rudely, carelessly, and she shrieks and kicks, muffling a laugh. She’s so sensitive, so ready. His cock almost feels like iron – such a cliché, the iron sheathed by velvet, even the balladeers had used that one in her callow youth – and her hand knows him for just a moment before her sex does.

She ends up on his lap, his hand squeezing her breast, she balanced oddly against the stump where her hand once was. There is no pain, no anger – she is beyond it, holding him to her, taking him inside, trying to drain every ounce of his vitality into the depths of her throbbing body.

She comes. It’s like pain, it’s so intense, her body wracked as if with sobbing. Then she clamps against him, squeezing, holding, releasing. There’s a harsh third orgasm before he throws himself upward into her and rolls her onto the ground, taking her with such force that Sheila’s teeth rattle in her skull. Both legs lace around his midsection and she bucks hard, as if trying to rid herself of him.

Then he comes with a startled, starry-eyed yell and she feels the hot flow of his sex into hers. It goes on and on as she spirals down from her own wild bliss, as within the warmth of her he releases months of pent-up lust, a long, hot stream of passion.

In the afterwards, Sheila lies panting, her thighs thrown akimbo. She can feel the release of him pouring down the seam of her lips as he pulls away, and when she tries to cover herself Ash stills her hands.

“No. Don’t cover up,” he pants. Blushing, she takes her hands away from her sex, feeling herself exposed, though she can hardly stand to meet his eyes. This, she knows, is his gesture of ownership to the world; _this woman is mine. She is mine, and I defy you to take her, Deadites be damned._ He stares at her for so long that Sheila slaps her thighs shut. 

“Aww, I was enjoyin’ the show.” That earns him a shove – with her stump, which makes her wince.

Ash shoots Sheila a look of sympathy and helps her to her feet. “C’mon. Let’s go grab a dip in that waterfall.”

“Aye,” Sheila agrees, stripping him of his hastily-rucked tunic and now-torn hose. “We mayn’t be seen like this by others.”

This is for and lies between them. Ash kisses her hand and leads her to the water’s edge.


	4. After The Ceremony

He’s very, very careful with her when he lies her down upon their marriage bed. Sheila sighs, annoyed but lovingly exasperated by his caution. “Ash, I am not made of glass.”

“And I’m glad,” he replied softly, his eyes dark, probing, knowing as they traced her features in the semi-darkness. His hand strokes her reverently as he parts her silks and finery. “But there’s no guarantee for the baby.”

Sheila has felt like a cosseted and well-loved woman all day, a plaster saint for whom no man may touch. But under Ash’s touch she melts to flesh, to bone – she becomes who she always intended to be, who she always has known she is – a woman made of love, a woman made of lust, both in equal portions. And all she wishes is to feel human in his regard, in his love.

Ash’s hand finds her, breathing and throbbing, under her lace. It’s always been a heat magnet, seeking her out, knowing her body just as well as her own fingertips. He grazes, brushes, squeezes what he finds lying ivory under her dress to living, blushing pink – her body turns and twists under his curiosity, her smile growing limpid with desire. His mouth follows the score, more agile than his mind, his hands, as always. 

She explores him, trying to dig beneath layers of jerkin and lace and leather. His skin is sun-warm, fuzzed over with dark, soft hair and scars. Her fingertip finds a new long, thin knife cut. Her lips discover it later when he’s lying under her, his eyes dark and warm with all the joy they’ve experienced this day. He spends an inordinate amount of time preparing her.

She tugs on his shoulders and he resists. “I won’t,” he mutters against her neck. “The baby,” he adds.

“The babe is fine,” she soothes. 

How does she know? She can not yet feel it stir within her – there is simply a feeling, a change of her courses, and suddenly she is aware. And now, painfully, so is he.

She leads; bravely and with kindness. And so it starts quietly, softly – almost motionlessly they join and hold. Motion comes later, when they can no longer wait for it, he pulls away from her and cradles her in his arms. He has to be atop her then, in the end, his body burrowing and throbbing in hers, making Sheila toss and gasp under his weight, until he must let her mount him, until she can ride to the finish in her own bold, inimitable way.

He rubs her back afterwards. She needs that – more than she needs the praise and the knowledge that he’s going to stay, going to commit to her. That he’s going to be a knight, if not a king, and that she will have the stability and security of his closeness forever. 

Afterward he considers his pants. “Wanna go downstairs and nab dinner?” he asks her.

She flushes. “They’ll know what we were about this eve.”

He kisses her hand, then. “Baby, it ain’t nobody’s business but ours.”

She smiles, then. She takes his kiss and his strength and his energy with her as she rises.

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfiction uses characters from **The Evil Dead Series** , all of whom are the property of **Universal/Ghost House**. No money was gained from the writing of this fanfiction and all are used under the strictures of of the Berne Convention.


End file.
